


Happiness In Pain

by Arwriter



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Arthur Whump, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Past Abuse, Young Arthur, Young Dutch, protective dads, young hosea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 06:02:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18219182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arwriter/pseuds/Arwriter
Summary: His father is dead, he's off the streets, no longer alone in the world, but Arthur knew it was too good to be true. These men were outlaws, just as angry at the world as anyone else. It was only a matter of time before it ended in pain.





	Happiness In Pain

_ “Goddammit, Arthur!”  _

They were words Arthur was used to, the furious yells he’d grown far too accustomed with as he grew up. They were always accompanied by a flash of fear, a suffocating feeling of dread, knowing all too well what was coming. 

It hadn’t happened in the months he’d been with Dutch and Hosea. Arthur was careful not to make them angry, never intervening with their work unless they told him to, making sure to stay out of their way when a job went wrong or a day was particularly stressful. He’d seen what a long day and a few bottles of beer could do to a man. 

But Dutch and Hosea were kind to him. They’d understood his wariness those first few weeks, giving him the space he needed, offering him reassurances and comfort. Told him he was safe. For the first time, Arthur thought he might have a place in the world, that he actually mattered to someone. 

It had taken him less than a year to screw that up.

They hadn’t even been working a job. There was no money to steal, no goal other than to get out of town alive. They’d been so close, the horses hitched just around the corner, the three of them slipping silently through the back alley behind the saloon, leaving the lawmen behind. 

Arthur had been moving too fast, too careless, desperate to make it the short distance to the horses, to not slow them down, and in his negligence his elbow had knocked over a beer bottle perched on the edge of a barrel, sending the glass to the ground, shattering with a shrill crash. 

The alleyway erupted into chaos within seconds, the once quiet street filled with yells and gunshots, and for a moment Arthur almost forgot to take cover, his feet frozen in the dirt. 

“Jesus, Arthur get  _ down!”  _

Arthur, snapping back to his senses, dove behind the nearest crate just in time, bullets spraying the brick wall beside his head. He yanked his gun from its holster, firing blindly at the alley’s entrance as he heard the lawmen approaching. 

“Leave it!” Hosea shouted, he and Dutch already turning the corner. For a terrifying moment, Arthur thought they might leave him. But then the two men came back into view, crouched at either end of the wall, firing at the approaching law. “Just run, Arthur! Hurry!” 

Hosea sounded angry, tense and irritated, but it was nothing compared to the fuming rage laced in Dutch’s voice. 

“For god’s sake, Arthur hurry the  _ hell _ up before you get us all  _ killed!”  _

Arthur flinched, but wasted no more time, rising from his cover, fleeing blindly to the end of the alley. He’d almost prefer a bullet in the back to what Hosea and Dutch would no doubt do to him. 

Somehow, they managed to make it to the horses, Arthur practically tearing the reins from the pole as he scrambled into his saddle, the other men already mounting and turning to flee. 

Arthur heard Dutch hiss, saw him grasp his shoulder, blood seeping in between his stained fingers, and Arthur’s heart stopped. Dutch had been shot.  _ He’d  _ gotten Dutch shot. His own stupidity had gotten someone hurt, and now they were all going to get killed or arrested because Arthur was incapable of doing anything right. 

But by some miracle, they managed to lose their pursuers once they veered off into the woods. It was a small town, hardly prepared to deal with outlaws like them, but Arthur wasn’t feeling the adrenaline and relief he usually experienced in times like this. 

They slowed their horses after the woods grew quiet, Arthur trying and failing to push down his panic and focus on what was in front of him. Hosea was leading Dutch to the nearest tree, sifting through his satchel as the other man leaned against the bark. 

“Is...is he ok?” 

“I’m  _ fine!”  _ Dutch snarled, Hosea peeling back his sleeve. The wound didn’t look serious, he’d definitely had worse, but a bullet wound was still a bullet wound, and this time it had been Arthur’s fault. 

“I’m...I’m sorry,” he tried, watching Hosea begin to wipe away the blood. “I didn’t mean to, I--” 

“Arthur, be quiet!” Hosea snapped, and Arthur instinctively took a step back. “Just for a minute, we just...we just need a few minutes, ok? Jesus, go...go keep watch. Make sure nobody’s following us.” 

Swallowing, Arthur nodded, pulled out his gun and turned, disappearing into the trees without another word. His stomach was sinking, his fear beginning to rise, threatening to suffocate him. It was a familiar feeling, one he thought he wouldn’t have to feel again with his newfound family. 

He should have known better. Angry men were all the same, always eager to take out their stress and frustration on a child, whether they called him a son or not. 

Arthur had been with his father, years earlier, Lyle Morgan dragging his son with him to the store in the town they’d stopped in for the day. 

_ “Hurry up. You slow us down and I’ll leave you behind, boy.”  _

Arthur had been moving quickly all day, exhausting himself, his father’s threats constantly echoing in his ear. 

He hadn’t been paying attention and his elbow had hit a jar on the shelf, too slow to catch it, watching it fall to the ground.

He remembered how it had felt, the sickening fear and realization, time seeming to slow as he watched it crack apart into pieces, jagged glass shards littering the floor.

He’d known what was coming the second he looked up at his father. 

The owner was assuring them that it was alright, that Arthur was only a child, that it was a simple mistake, but Lyle Morgan was beyond listening. He never listened. Not when Arthur cried, screamed or begged behind closed doors. 

He reared back, backhanding Arthur across the face, sending him crashing to the floor amongst the glass shards. 

He felt tears well in his eyes, wiping them away quickly, refusing to look at his father as he struggled to his feet, his arms cut and bleeding. The shopkeeper said nothing, and the customers turned a blind eye. 

The slap had been nothing compared to the beating when he’d gotten home, Lyle quickly losing himself in his alcohol and anger. They’d left town the next day, nobody thinking twice about the bruised and cut up boy thrown into the wagon. 

“Arthur!” Hosea’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. He spun around in a panic, hands shaking around the gun as he quickly lowered the weapon. “Come on. Let’s get back to camp.” 

Arthur hesitated, suddenly unable to bring himself to move, bones reduced to nothing more than water, wobbling and useless. They were going back home. The beating would come when it wouldn’t draw unwanted attention. Not that anyone who saw would care. 

“Dutch is fine,” Hosea assured, setting some of Arthur’s apprehension to rest. Dutch was alive, the injury wasn’t serious, but he had still been shot. Dutch was no doubt already furious, short-tempered from the pain. Hosea motioned impatiently. “Hurry up, or we’ll leave you behind.” 

They’d leave him behind. Just like his father had threatened to do so many times, knowing that despite the countless beatings, Arthur wouldn’t leave. Because as much as he hated his father, as much as being beaten by someone he couldn’t help but love terrified him, being alone had somehow been worse. He’d been convinced he would die, cold and starving on the side of the road, no one bothering to help him. He’d fade away in his sleep, and no one would care. No one would even know.  

Strangers had no reason to keep him alive after their brutality, no reason to beat him other than the fact that they  _ could.  _ He’d learned that quickly after his father died. It had occasionally come close, but Lyle had always kept him alive. Without Arthur, he had nothing to take his anger out on but himself. 

So he followed Hosea back to the horses, silent and obedient, praying the man couldn’t see his fear. Fear made him look weak. Weakness had just made his father angrier, made the beating worse. 

Dutch was already on his horse when Arthur mounted, refusing to meet the older man’s gaze. His shirt was ripped, the bandage around his shoulder visible, and Arthur shuddered, wondering how many bandages he would need when they were done with him. Lyle’s beatings were bad, but these men were outlaws. He’d seen what they were willing to do to people. 

“There you are,” Dutch said, making Arthur wince. “Be a little more careful next time, will you?” 

Arthur only nodded, not trusting his own voice, hanging his head as Hosea mounted and they started through the trees. 

They hadn’t camped far from town, and the ride took less than an hour. It went by too fast, Arthur’s shaking growing worse the closer they got. 

“You should go sit down,” Hosea said, dismounting, watching as Dutch slowly did the same. “You too, Arthur. It’s been a long day. I can go out and try to find something for dinner.” 

“I’m not hungry,” Arthur said quickly, ignoring the curious looks. He knew better than to ask for food after making a mistake. The way he was feeling now, he would probably just end up throwing it back up, anyway. 

“You sure?” Hosea asked, and he nodded. 

“I’m sure.” 

“I’m sure we have some canned beans stashed somewhere,” Dutch said, hand still clutching his shoulder when he walked. “Better not risk heading out again.” 

Arthur said nothing, shifting aimlessly for a moment before following Dutch to the campfire, the orange flames already sparking to life. He half expected to be hit from behind as he walked, hunching his shoulders as he sat across from Dutch, waiting for the inevitable. 

“Hell of a day,” Dutch said, his voice making Arthur flinch. The older man didn’t seem to notice, injured arm resting in his lap, gaze of the glow of the fire. “Not exactly the most elegant escape we’ve had.” 

Arthur, knowing his lack of a response would likely just make Dutch angrier, nodded his head in agreement, not sure what else he was supposed to say. His father had always seemed to hate the sound of his voice.  

“It happens,” Hosea said, moving to stand beside Dutch, and Arthur’s heart dropped. The men on the street had always cornered him, trapped him, outnumbered him so he couldn’t get away. “You sure you don’t want anything to eat? I can--” 

“I’m sure,” Arthur said quickly, looking down at his hands, feeling Dutch and Hosea’s eyes on him. It was getting harder to control his breathing. “I-I’m--I don’t--” 

He hated how shaky his voice had become, how he couldn’t get ahold of himself no matter how hard he tried. He should be used to this by now, but it had been months since he’d felt this kind of fear. He’d allowed himself to feel safe, to feel wanted, and it was being ripped away, the reminder like a knife to the heart. 

The waiting was the worst part. Lyle had done the same thing before, and those beating had always been the worst. He’d let Arthur’s anxiety grow worse, or wait until he began to think he might be safe. And then he’d be hit without warning, forced to see his father’s rage and pain and grief. It always felt like a betrayal, ripping his heart out every time. 

Someone touched his shoulder and Arthur jumped back before he could stop himself. Hosea was standing over him, pulling his hand back, and Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, waiting to be hit. 

“Arthur--” 

“I-I’m sorry,” Arthur stammered, still trembling. He heard more footsteps and he tensed, knowing both men were standing over him now, knowing his pleading would just make the beating worse. But he couldn’t stop himself. “Please,  _ please,  _ I’m...I’m sorry it--it won’t happen again I swear just don’t--” 

“Arthur.” It was Dutch’s voice this time, and Arthur tensed, falling silent. “Arthur, look at me.” 

Arthur did as he was told, heart hammering against his chest, unable to stop his shivering. It was getting harder to hold back tears, the panic overwhelming, old memories he thought he’d outrun being dragged back to the surface.

Dutch slowly lowered himself to a crouch, brow furrowed in something that mimicked concern. Maybe it was pity. Arthur flinched away, breath catching in his throat, and Dutch’s frown deepened. 

“Arthur,” he said again, sharing a worried glance with Hosea. “Do you...do you think we’re going to hurt you?” 

Arthur swallowed again, the sudden confusion mixing with the terror, just making him more anxious and miserable. He didn’t know what to say, doubting there was anything he could do to that wouldn’t make them more furious. He wished they would just get it over with. 

“Please don’t,” he said again before he could stop himself. He was just making it worse. “I’m sorry I-I know I made a mistake but...but it was an accident, it...it won’t happen again I swear just-” he paused, knowing it was useless. “-don’t...don’t hit me too hard. Please…” 

“Oh, Arthur, no. God, no I...we would never...” Dutch reached forward as Hosea lowered himself to their level, both looking horrified when Arthur pulled away. He heard himself whimper, hating the pathetic noise he couldn’t hold back. His father would have killed him. 

“We’re not angry, Arthur,” Hosea said, his voice as soft and gentle as the day they’d found him. “And even if we were, we wouldn’t hurt you. We won't hurt you, we will  _ never  _ do that, ok?”

Arthur was having trouble registering the words, his breathing becoming painful, vision blurring, reliving the countless cuts and bruises. 

“Arthur, calm down,” Dutch said, not even trying to hide his rising panic. “Please, son, just breathe. Breathe, Arthur, please. You’re ok, I promise, you’re fine.” 

Arthur’s breath hitched again, head feeling heavy, the world spinning. “I-i-it...it was an accident--” 

“We know,” Dutch assured. “We  _ know.  _ It’s ok, Arthur. We ain’t mad. Nobody’s upset with you, I promise. You’re safe.” 

Dutch was reaching forward again, slow and cautious, Arthur’s eyes glued to the approaching hand. He flinched, but the pain never came, Dutch only gently cupping face, smiling gently. 

“See?” he asked. “I’m not going to hit you, son.”

Arthur blinked, still struggling to make sense of anything, to convince himself that this wasn’t some cruel trick or punishment. There was a hand on his back, Hosea moving to support him, Arthur’s breathing gradually slowing. 

“S-sorry,” he managed after a few moments, still shaky and worn out. “I-I thought...I just thought--” 

“Don’t be sorry, Arthur,” Hosea said, letting an exhausted Arthur lean against his chest. Dutch slowly pulled his hand away, still watching him fondly. “You’re young, and you’ve been through a lot. But we’re family now. And we ain't them.” 

Arthur nodded against him, letting himself meet Dutch’s gaze. “My...my father used...used to...he…” He stopped, not quite sure how to say it. He’d never had anybody who’d cared before. 

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Dutch said, seeming to understand. “We understand. But...if you ever need to, we--” 

“We’ll always be here,” Hosea finished. “And we’ll do our best.” 

Dutch nodded in agreement, and Arthur smiled. He was still rested against Hosea’s chest, the warmth of the fire lulling them back into serenity, and he felt no desire to move. 

Lyle Morgan was dead, buried in an unmarked grave, his life spent as nothing but an abusive drunk who built nothing but a broken family. 

But Dutch and Hosea weren’t him. They were the fathers Lyle could never be, the family that had been taken from him, the protection and comfort he’d been told by the world he didn’t deserve. 

Arthur let his eyes slip shut, knowing it was safe to fall asleep, that his newfound family would let him rest. He faded into the dark, the lingering peace of his home keeping the nightmares of his past at bay. 


End file.
